


Challenging The Iceman

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble, Injury, Kidnapped Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft's Umbrella, Not Canon Compliant, Sherlock is a Damsel in Distress, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 16:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21395152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in a strange place, knowing he is in big trouble. Of all people, his brother is supposed to save him, and Sherlock is sure he'll never do that.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 34
Kudos: 146





	Challenging The Iceman

Sherlock returns to consciousness very slowly. He tries to lift his head. A sharp pain lights up behind his eyes. Everything is aching, basically. His sight is blurred for a moment, his eyes only slowly adjusting to the half-dark room. He has no idea where he is. The air smells like dust and decay. There isn’t any doubt that he is in big trouble… How much time has he lost?

“Ah, you’re awake, Mr Detective. Very sorry for the rough handling but we need to make our point after all.”

Sherlock has never seen the short, half-bald guy in the expensive suit before but he gets aware of what this all is about very quickly. The man doesn’t exactly introduce himself but in the next few minutes, he tells Sherlock why he is in this place – a shabby warehouse; he is tied to a table in the middle of the long room. His shirt in shreds, having been beaten to a pulp. It has happened before. But it seems serious. Not because of the injuries. A concussion, most likely. He vaguely recalls a hit against his head, then darkness. His left eyebrow is split. Perhaps some ribs are cracked. But nothing too severe. Not the actual problem. The problem is what his kidnapper is telling him.

A dull story, in the end. A man working for a shady armaments company, trying to make a deal with a no-go country. A very lucrative deal. Which would never be approved by the government.

The equation is simple. By kidnapping and manhandling Sherlock Holmes, the man with the red tie wants to force Mycroft Holmes to influence the right people to let the deal pass. A plan as bold as it is hopeless.

“You’re crazy if you think my brother would care,” Sherlock rasps out. His throat is dry.

“You’re his only weakness, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. He knows he is screwed. Mycroft would never risk his position for saving him. As things are, Mycroft would not even pee on him if he was burning… His only hope is that John may find him but he knows the odds are against him. He has been snatched from the dirty street, a street without camera-surveillance, that much he can remember. John has been in the clinic the whole morning (and in all probability he is still there) so Sherlock solved the case for Lestrade on his own. But the DI drove away in his police car and Sherlock decided to walk to get some exercise. Great idea… But of course he knows if he had accompanied Lestrade, they would have simply caught him another time. “My brother doesn’t have any weaknesses and he doesn’t give a damn for me.” Why would he. Sherlock has snubbed him way too often, especially since John has entered his life. If they hadn’t been archenemies before, they certainly are now. “Let me go and I’ll forget I ever met you.” His words sound dull to his own ears. But what else can he say… He could deduce the man to shreds; if he tried hard enough, he could make his dizzy, thrumming brain work. But he knows when he is beaten.

“Nice try. And your brother is being informed about your current whereabouts right now. He will also be informed that if he doesn’t come alone, you will die at once.”

He is as good as dead anyway. Mycroft will refuse to trade him for this deal. He will only roll his eyes and leave if he shows up in the first place…

“Ah. He’s on his way,” the man informs him, looking at his phone. He is around fifty, his eyes small and his lips a thin line. His chin is weak and too fleshy, his ears improportionally big. An unappealing, forgettable face. It would be an unworthy death…

For a moment Sherlock muses what he would say to the people he will now never see again.

To Mrs Hudson:_ “Thanks for being like a mother to me. I know I drove you crazy and I’m sorry for the damage I did to your flat.”_

To his actual mother and father:_ “Sorry for being a menace all my life. You have tried your best but you never understood me.”_

To John:_ “You've been the best friend I could wish for. I wish you could have saved my life once more.”_

What would he say to Mycroft? Well, whatever it is, he can probably say it in person…

Minutes pass. He feels like his mind is falling apart. He is very aware that death has never been closer to him. The man smokes a cigarette, and Sherlock inhales the scent. His last one, as indirectly as he might get to smoke it. And then a man with a shaved head enters the large room. A bodyguard as it seems. And Sherlock recalls he is the man who beat him up. Very tall, broad, his face showing no sign of tremendous intelligence. Only one. They have to be very sure of themselves. Well, Sherlock is tied to a table. He has of course tried to loosen his constrictions but they have been done well. And Mycroft… He is brilliant and cold-blooded for sure. But he lives behind a desk and he is hardly a fighter…

And then he comes in, all long coat, three-piece-suit elegance, the inevitable umbrella in one of his glove-covered hands. He stalks across the huge room, his face looking like granite. When he has reached them, he stares down at Sherlock with disgust out of these icy blues.

“God, brother. Shouldn’t you know better? Is this how you want to end? Beaten by this joke on two short legs?”

As expected, there is no sympathy in his eyes, only annoyance. And Sherlock knows what he should say to him:_ “Thank you for keeping up with me for so long. I understand that this time it is demanded too much.” _He feels no wrath, only resignation.

The kidnapper tenses. “I wouldn’t provoke me like this if I were you.”

“And why ever not?” Mycroft's voice is cold and mocking.

Suddenly the man produces a long, curved knife from his jacket. Sherlock shudders and he holds very still when it is being poked against his throat. He can feel the razor sharp tip scratching up his skin nonetheless. “I'm not playing games, Mr Holmes. You make sure the deal gets through and your brother lives. You have five hours. Then he will die. If you cooperate, we’ll let him go. And don't worry – we won't keep him here. And as soon as I see any agents or helicopters, he will die anyway.” His tone is as theatrical as his words. A man who likes to hear himself talk.

Mycroft rolls his eyes and it is like an awful déjà-vu. “You really think I would risk the safety of this country for my worthless little brother? You should have done your homework better, Mr Rothington. Do with him as you wish. And now excuse me. I'm busy.” He turns to leave and Sherlock suddenly wonders why he has come at all just to say this while his heart is breaking and his blood is turning to ice, at the same time knowing that he hasn’t given his brother any reason to react differently.

Rothington and his man look at each other, confused and taken aback. Then the bodyguard walks quickly towards the door to block Mycroft’s way after a gesture from his boss, and the short man turns to Sherlock, saying loudly, “Well, I will have to kill you then. I misc… urgh…”

Sherlock curses in surprise when he is showered with hot, sticky blood. It is gushing over him through the wound in Rothington's chest, where the tip of the sword that had been hidden in the umbrella has come out after being rammed into his back. The bodyguard screams and runs back to them – and falls backwards, dead before he hits the floor, shot by the gun that was masked as the handle of the umbrella.

Mycroft makes sure Rothington is dead as well by coldly kicking him in the side. Then he deftly unties Sherlock after taking off his leather gloves. “Little brother. Are you all right?” His right hand cups Sherlock's cheek and his palm is warm, and the unexpected contact feels so comforting that Sherlock's eyes are suddenly tearing up.

Mycroft quickly fires off a text without even looking at his phone. “Hush, Sherlock. It’s all good. The ambulance is on its way. His other men are being taken out as we speak. You think anything's broken?”

“No. I'm okay.” The words are rather a sob and then he sits up, ignoring the pain in his ribcage, and is clinging to his brother's neck a moment later.

He has never been so close to Mycroft before and his warmth and the careful grip of his arm around his waist make Sherlock shudder. He nuzzles his face against his neck.

Mycroft indulges him for a long moment before he slowly retreats, watching Sherlock closely. “You’ll go to hospital and get checked through. Doctor Watson has been informed and will come over with some items you’ll need.” He pauses when sirens are approaching. “I’ll be busy now with cleaning up this nasty affair. But I’ll check on you later, all right?”

Sherlock nods and wipes away the snot that he can feel on his upper lip with his sleeve. “Thank you.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow but it doesn’t look condescending. It looks… sad? “I truly hope you didn’t think I’d let you die.” He can see the answer in Sherlock's eyes and bites his lip. “You should know me better. But then – you never cared.”

Rothington was right. Sherlock _is_ Mycroft’s weakness. He only missed how far his brother is willing to go for him. “I will. I want to!” Sherlock has never been more serious, and Mycroft sees it.

He smiles and briefly glances at the paramedics who enter the room. “Good. Try to be patient and let them do their job, hm?” He steps back.

Sherlock nods and lets himself be helped onto his feet.

“Can you walk to the stretcher, sir?” The man is young and attractive, with full lips and jet black hair.

Sherlock only gives him a glance when he answers. “Yes.” His look returns to his brother. And Mycroft returns his stare, and a vast mixture of feelings is showing in his eyes before he closes his shields.

“See you later, little brother.”

“Please do come.”

Mycroft smiles. “I will.” And then he leaves, the sword still firmly placed in Rothington’s corpse. The gun has probably disappeared in Mycroft's coat pocket.

Sherlock knows someone will come and clean up the mess. Thoroughly. This will not appear in any records.

He has never felt this impressed by big brother.

*****

“You can leave now, John. Mycroft will be here shortly. He texted me.”

John nods. “Texted me too. Told him about your injuries.”

Does he trust John more with being told the truth about them? Sherlock knows Mycroft has no sympathy for the doctor whatsoever. But apparently he does believe in his honesty regarding Sherlock's well-being.

John sighs. “You were lucky. You look like you survived a few rounds with Evander Holyfield but still you have little more than a light concussion and some hefty bruises.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Fact is, you were fucking lucky.”

Sherlock doesn’t exactly like his friend’s tone. “I didn’t ask to be abducted and beaten up, John.”

“I know, right. But you seem to attract these situations like a magnet.”

“Which is exactly why you’re my work partner, John. Only this time you’ve missed the opportunity to get an adrenaline kick.” He wonders what would have happened if John had been with him. Would they have waited until they could catch him alone? Or would they have killed John? Or tried, at least? They had only wanted _him_ after all.

John grimaces. “So glad that Mycroft got you out. Who would have thought...”

They both wince when the door is being pushed open. “You thought I was a lazy pencil-pusher, Doctor Watson? You are in good company. My brother seems to have thought this as well.” Mycroft crosses the room. The umbrella, hanging at his arm, looks new, and Sherlock wonders which hidden treats this one harbours.

Mycroft looks exhausted but not as if his actions of a few hours earlier have affected him in any way. Sherlock says nothing, leaves it to John to answer that he won’t underestimate Mycroft again. Sherlock has told him about the events of the morning under the pledge of secrecy. He knows that he can trust John.

“I do hope you’ll never give me any reason to remove _you_,” Mycroft says, and even though his tone is light, Sherlock knows he is deadly serious, not only because Mycroft does not joke. His brother would do anything for him. He has just proven it thoroughly.

“You know I’d never harm Sherlock,” John says, embarrassed.

Sherlock wonders why Mycroft has said this. To demonstrate his superiority? Or because he can sense something in John that he doesn’t? John flares rather easily. But Sherlock doesn’t think he would ever violate him. Why should he? But one thing is sure – he would deeply regret it.

“All right. See you later, Sherlock. I’ll be here latest tomorrow morning when you’re released.”

“Do not worry, Doctor Watson. I will come with a car,” Mycroft says, and John looks surprised.

“Sure. If you need anything, just text me,” he tells Sherlock. Then he nods at Mycroft, looking a little intimidated (?) and leaves.

Mycroft sits down in the visitor’s chair. He has changed his clothes, Sherlock only notices now. Of course… There had to have been blood on his coat – from Sherlock and the man he stabbed.

Sherlock wonders what has happened to the clothes he has worn. He had received hospital clothes as soon as he has arrived here, and John has brought a bag for him.

“Your clothing has been taken care of,” Mycroft easily deduces his searching look. “Nobody will know what happened to you. Officially you’ve been robbed and beaten by some unknown criminal elements.”

Sherlock smiles wryly. “That won’t help my reputation as a detective...”

“Ah, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. I'm sorry, little brother. I should have foreseen this.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “How should you? Never thought such people even know of your existence...”

Mycroft nods. “I like to operate in the shadows indeed. But sometimes I do have to talk to unpleasant people. So far nobody dared to target me. Or used you as leverage.” He seems genuinely disturbed by it.

“You were great, Mycroft,” Sherlock whispers. “Like some dark superhero.”

Mycroft chuckles, his pale-blue eyes lightening up. It makes him look many years younger. “Your avenger, little brother.”

Sherlock has a vague memory of some silly film he has seen advertises for. “Just so,” he says. “And I guess… Superheroes get the girl they saved.”

Mycroft tilts his head. “Do they now?”

“Yes.”

There is a weird sort of tension in the room. It has already started when Sherlock was in his brother’s arms in the warehouse. Now he has shaken off his shock and can think clearly again after taking some painkillers. He openly looks into his brother’s eyes. The air is heavily loaded.

But then Mycroft shakes his head. “You don’t need to prove your gratitude, Sherlock. I did what had to be done. I do hope we will never get into such a situation again. Perhaps you should sleep now...”

Sherlock knows if he lets him go now, he will regret it forever. “There is something else superheroes do, dark or not.”

Mycroft indulges him. “And what is it?”

“They kiss the girl.” He wonders where this has come from. How he can be like this. Bold. Even seductive? In his state above all. But this is now or never.

Mycroft just stares at him for a long moment. “And if they don’t like girls?”

“They kiss the curly-haired detective.” Sherlock knows he looks ghastly. He had not been able to wash the blood out of his hair sufficiently. His face is a mess. He feels as if he had been hit by a car.

But he wants this kiss. Never before has he even considered that. With nobody. But now it feels right.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asks, his voice steely.

This is a high risk, Sherlock knows that. Nobody will be told about this. He could tell John that Mycroft has killed someone for him but he is well aware he won’t tell him about this. It will have to be a secret forever.

He nods with full conviction. “Yes.”

And then Mycroft is sitting on his bed, bending down, and his soft lips brush over Sherlock's. It feels odd and weird and great. Mycroft pulls back, watching him very closely. Content with what he sees, he darts forward again, and this time the kiss is more thorough. Their tongues touch ever so lightly.

It’s over way too soon. Mycroft stands up. “I need to leave now, brother mine.”

“But you’ll come back. Or let me come to you, tomorrow, or the day after.” They will need time to think about this. Or rather: Sherlock will give Mycroft time to think because he is already sure. He wants this. It’s insane and unheard of and dangerous, and he wants it. Mycroft has so much more to lose than him.

Mycroft nods. “I’ll check on you in the evening. And if you feel well enough, we can meet in my house tomorrow.”

He quickly bends down again and their lips meet once more, and when Mycroft leaves after turning to him in the door, Sherlock smiles at him and then slumps in the pillows. He has been beaten up, threatened with a cruel death and his entire body feels awful.

But big brother has saved him. He has been there for him, and he will be there for him in many other ways soon. Sherlock can’t wait. He can’t wait to melt the Iceman thoroughly, his dark superhero.


End file.
